


Oblivion

by CaitlinFairchild



Series: Somatic Theory [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BDSM, Bloodplay, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson is a Saint, Kidnapping, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Romance, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1684124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hello there, gorgeous,” John murmurs, warm and fond. “I’ve missed you.”</p><p>Sherlock reaches into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulls out his collar. The metal hardware jingles as he drops it in John’s lap and waits.</p><p>John’s fingers in his hair grow still. John picks up the collar and inhales. Exhales.</p><p>“Sweetheart. After what you’ve just been through...I don’t know if this the kind of thing we should--”</p><p>Something spikes in Sherlock’s chest. It’s hard to breathe past it.</p><p>“John,” he says, fighting hard to keep his voice even, “surely you’re not so stupid that you can’t parse the profound psychological difference between what we do and actually being forcibly imprisoned.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> More porn. Also some plot. Mostly porn, though.
> 
> TW: Bloodplay. Not kidding. Heed the tags.
> 
> Millions of kisses to Hidden Lacuna, the best beta I've ever had the pleasure to know. If this is even remotely readable, that's her doing.
> 
> Come follow me on Tumblr:  
>    
> [CaitlinIsPiningforJohnlock](http://caitlinispiningforjohnlock.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> or hit me up at CaitlinFairchild1976@gmail.com.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting. You make my world go round.
> 
> And now, proceeding to the porn.

Sherlock is walking up St. James on his way to a haircut, the most boringly routine task imaginable, when they snatch him up in broad daylight.

Unforgivably distracted by trivial thoughts (The distinctive scar patterns of East Asian leg-lengthening surgery on the unidentified body Molly showed him earlier), he never sees them approach; he feels the sharp sting in his neck, a moment of panicked confusion, and he’s limp and oblivious in the back of a van before he even knows what’s happening.

He wakes with a blinding headache several hours later on the floor of a damp, moldy-smelling stone room. He’s missing everything but his trousers. He’s briefly glad it’s late summer and he wasn’t wearing his coat; he’s been burning through them at an alarming rate in the past couple of years.

***

“Where are the Budapest papers?” snarls the stocky, unwashed thug for the twentieth or thirtieth time in the past hour.

“I don’t know,” answers Sherlock honestly. Two weeks ago, Sherlock retrieved the stolen documents; two days ago he delivered them to the dead drop as requested.

Sherlock feels the stirring of air as the man pulls his arm back; he strains against the cuffs affixing his wrists to the pipe overhead, tensing involuntarily against the blow.

A white-hot starburst explodes across his lower right flank. Pillowcase full of batteries, he is fairly certain, or some similar improvisation intended to inflict maximum pain with minimal long-term damage. Whatever their plans are, they intend to keep him whole and relatively uninjured for at least few days.

Sherlock can survive the pain, no doubt. But Christ, does it hurt.

“Where are the Budapest papers?” the man repeats, his voice bearing a strong Northern accent. Rank, rotting breath washes over Sherlock in a fetid wave, making him recoil. His gut tightens, and he might have vomited if there was anything other than bile in his stomach.

“Aren’t you bored with this game?” Sherlock mutters between shaky breaths. “I know I am. Also, you really should see a doctor about that chronic tonsillitis. No wonder you’re in such a bad mood.”

The next blow lands squarely on the small of his back, over the bones of his coccyx, causing him to gasp involuntarily. That one is going to leave a hell of a bruise.

***

His captors are clearly aware that intellect is Sherlock’s most formidable weapon; in between interrogation sessions, they inject him with powerful tranquilizers before shoving him back into his cell. His brain numb and blank, Sherlock spends the hours floating in a drugged haze, long stretches of fuzzy grey nothing interspersed with strange, blurry impressions of touch and movement.

He awakes briefly to the feel of a damp cloth across his forehead and along his cheek, making the abrasions there flare into a sharp sting. A cloying, sickly-sweet scent undercut with a note of something sharp, like nail varnish, floods his nostrils, making him gag and retch.

“I don’t have what you want,” rasps Sherlock blearily. “You know I don’t. Why haven’t you killed me yet?”

“Kill you?” the man laughs, and the screeching timbre of it makes Sherlock shudder despite himself. “Not just yet.” Dry, hot fingers stroke the back of his neck, and Sherlock holds himself perfectly still, fights the overwhelming urge to flinch and cower from the repulsive touch. “It’s just a shame I can’t keep you for myself.” 

The steel cell door opens with a grinding screech. and a second dark shape looms. “Jesus, Elliot. Control yourself, willya? Boss’ll cut off yer bollocks if he catches you goin’ at ‘im.” 

Liverpool--Elliot--sighs and gets to his feet. “I’ll see you later, sweetness,” he says, and presses chapped lips to Sherlock’s shoulder, making his skin crawl. 

***

The drugs render him unable to eat or drink without vomiting.

They hold him down and force water down his throat.

His urine is bright red with blood.

He’s still alive, and the brief glimpse of mud on the main interrogator’s shoes tell him he’s still in London so clearly they have a plan B in play, but Sherlock doesn’t have what they really want; he’s living on borrowed time, now, and he knows it.

 

***

They stop pretending to want the information about the Budapest papers, beating him over and over without explanation with an electrical cord, a metal pipe, a length of brine-soaked rattan.

He bruises and swells, but they are careful not to break skin or bones.

He remains resolutely silent. He won’t give them the pleasure. He suspects they’re still hurting him just to see if they can make him cry out.

He doesn’t.

In a fog of pain and drugs Sherlock begins to forget whether it’s been days or months or years.

***

Sherlock wakes, briefly, to fingers tracing across the muscles of his abdomen. He recoils, unable to stop the whimper that spills from his lips.

“Just let me,” Liverpool whispers, his words fumbling and slurred. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just let me.” There is a mouth on his, breath reeking of acetone, and anger and fear give Sherlock a needed moment of clarity. He rears back and head-butts his assailant square between the eyes. Liverpool screams and scrambles back, blood pouring from his nose.

“You motherfucking cocksucking bastard!” he screams, his voice thickly clogged with blood. He weaves unsteadily on his feet, clamping a hand over his broken nose. “I’ll fucking kill you, I will-”

The commotion has drawn attention, and the steel door screeches open, two blurred shapes appear. “Chrissakes, Ell, what the fuck are you doing?” His would-be assailant is pulled away from him, howling threats and curses. 

Sherlock is alert now, adrenaline flooding the drugs out of his system, but before he can take advantage of the opportunity a boot smashes him in the solar plexus once, twice. He folds double, gasping for air.

“Useless waste of time, you are,” the owner of the boot tells him conversationally. “Better hope you’re worth what they think.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock wheezes, still trying to find breath.

“Doesn’t matter to me. Alive or dead, end of the week I’ll be rid of you and glad of it.”

A rough fist in his hair, pulling his head back; Sherlock flinches at the cold bite of a needle on the side of his neck.

“Two more days, and you can do whatever the hell you want,” he hears as he’s pulled back down into the void. “Fuck him, skin him, make him into lampshades for all I care. But until then, leave him the fuck alone.”

 _Hurry, John,_ he thinks fleetingly, desperately. _Please._

The empty blackness descends once more.

***

“Sherlock.”

He’s dreaming of his parents’ overgrown back garden and honeybees droning in the sunlight. He looks over toward the house; John is standing at the back door, dressed in a plaid shirt and cardigan just like his father would wear. He’s looking at Sherlock with a small, fond smile. Sherlock raises a hand in greeting, but his arm feels odd, heavy and dead as stone.

“You’re here,” Sherlock says, the words thick and slurred on his tongue.

John’s smile is replaced by a look of worry, of fear. He crosses the garden, kneels down next to Sherlock. “I’m here, love. Don’t try to talk.”

John is upset. “What’s wrong, John?” Sherlock tries to ask, but the words won’t come out right. The sun disappears behind clouds, and the air grows cold and damp. The bees are gone, the flowers are gone, it’s all a dream and there’s no John and its dark and he’s in pain--

“Shh,” John says. “I’m here. I’m here.”

***

When he wakes, John is standing at his bedside, reading his chart. His face is grey with worry and exhaustion, bags etched deep under his eyes. Sherlock can see he hasn’t slept in days.

John puts his chart aside, brushes a lank curl out of his eyes with gentle fingertips. “Good morning, beautiful,” he says, trying to sound cheerful but not quite succeeding. “How are you feeling?”

“How long?” Sherlock asks in a dry, raspy croak, a bit afraid of the answer. Oh God, it hurts just to form words.

“Five days,” John tells him. “Thank God for greedy morons. One of the goons that snatched you kept your mobile instead of tossing it like he was told. Lucky for us he couldn’t pass on the lure of a new iPhone 6. Mycroft had military-grade GPS installed in it, of course he did, so we tracked the arsehole down and got the information out of him pretty easily.” John’s fingers tighten around his. “Mycroft’s pissed at you, by the way, for getting involved in that Hungarian business without letting him know. I didn’t know you’d kept him in the dark, so I tend to agree with him, but we can discuss that later.”

Sherlock really doesn’t have the energy to remind John about the favour he-- _they_ \--had owed a certain dowager countess, so he settles for a small shrug of feigned indifference. The movement shoots pain through his body despite the morphine drip, making him wince and gasp a deep breath.

John strokes his arm, his lips pressed into a thin line. He waits a moment, letting the pain settle a bit before continuing.

“We didn’t get them, Sherlock. We tried to surprise them, but they had a few minutes.” John shakes his head. “We grabbed a few of the hired goons, but the masterminds got away. Anything you can remember, anything at all--it would help. A lot.”

“I remember very little. I was…” Sherlock trails off, feeling vaguely ill and ashamed at the idea of being semiconscious, helpless, unable to use his mind to save himself.

“I know. They kept you drugged up. Rohypnol, mostly. That’s why you don’t remember much.”

Sherlock nods minutely, then hisses as the motion sends fireworks of pain up into his skull. “How bad is it? I hurt all over.”

“You’re badly dehydrated and malnourished.” John begins, and Sherlock recognises the controlled, polite Doctor Voice John is using to distance himself from his anger and worry. “Injury-wise, they were very careful. Deep bruising, they really did a number on your legs and back, but no broken bones. Your kidneys really took a beating, we need to keep an eye on that, but otherwise no serious internal injuries.” 

“It could be a lot worse, I suppose,” Sherlock mutters with a wry, pained grimace. 

“It’s bad enough, but yes, it could have been far worse, and I’m grateful it’s not.” John bends over the railing to kiss his forehead before settling into the side chair, and Sherlock tries not to flinch at the sense memory of cloying sickly sweetness. He doesn’t fully succeed. He sees an unguarded flicker of concern cross John’s eyes, then disappear behind carefully composed features.

Sherlock realises his mouth and lips are parched. “I’m very thirsty,” he croaks.

“They’re monitoring your kidney output and limiting your fluids until the bleeding stops,” John says apologetically, picking up a cup from the side table. “You’re on ice chips for now.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes--even his ocularis orbii hurts, how is that even _possible?_ \--but opens his mouth, accepts the spoonful of ice chips John offers him, then another.

“That’s enough for now. You really need to rest.” John turns away to put the cup back on the side table. Sherlock instinctively reaches out and seizes his hand in a burst of panic, the movement shooting fireworks of agony throughout his body.

“Don’t go,” he says, cringing internally at his embarrassing neediness, his unguarded fear.

John drops his head and brushes his lips gently across the dry, rough skin of Sherlock’s fingers. “I’m not going anywhere, love, I promise. I’m not letting you out of my sight for a long, long time.”

***

Sherlock has a brief, hazy impression of smugness and and expensive cologne, but he doesn’t bother to regain consciousness for his brother’s lecture on his reckless behaviour. It’s not something he hasn’t heard a hundred times before.

***

He wakes up briefly, several hours later.

“Type I diabetes.”

John is napping in the chair next to his bed. “Hmm?” he mutters, shaking his head to rouse himself.

“They had me drugged, I couldn’t... but there was one. Liverpool. Male. Early thirties. Slender build, dark hair, green eyes. They called him Elliot. His breath. Type I diabetes.” Sherlock’s eyes are already closing again. “He’s in ketoacidosis. Medical crisis.Tell Lestrade. Crosscheck the name…”

“...against NHS records. Insulin prescriptions. Look at hospital admissions. Got it,” John says, but Sherlock is drifting away again, his eyes fluttering closed.

***

Sherlock is drowsing, eyes shut, when John pockets his mobile and takes his hand.

“They found him,” John said. “His boss had the bright idea of double-crossing the Hungarians, and you can imagine how well that worked out, so he was more than happy to turn on the whole crew in exchange for Her Majesty’s loving embrace.” He sinks down into the chair, absently strokes Sherlock’s forearm.

“I’d love to kill that piece of shit,” John says with tired resignation. “In fact, I’d shoot every one of those bastards between the eyes with pleasure, if it wouldn’t land me in Pentonville and take me away from you.” 

Half-unconscious, doped up on morphine, Sherlock is unguarded against the rush of tenderness--no, not just tenderness, _love_ \--he feels for his brave, ferocious protector. “I know you would,” he murmurs, and there’s more he wants to say, so much more, but sleep claims him again before he can find the words.

***

He finally stops pissing blood, and the hospital grudgingly releases him with numerous admonitions about strenuous activity while John repeatedly reminds the attending that he is in fact a real live doctor and can take perfectly good care of Sherlock at home.

Finally back at Baker Street, his back and arms are still desperately sore so John gets into the shower with him, helping him wash his gamey, sticky body and lank, overlong hair, then dries him carefully, wrapping him in a fresh white towel. After carefully arranging him in bed (naked; he’s in too much pain to try getting dressed and there honestly isn’t any need) John gives him two Tramadol and a sip of water, then quickly pulls on a pair of boxers and slips into bed, carefully spooning behind him, resting a warm hand lightly on Sherlock’s belly. 

Sherlock remembers the dank, dirty floor, fingers tracing across his abdomen. He pushes the blurred images away, locks them behind a heavy door. This is here. This is now. This is John, and John is safety. Sherlock tries to let it go, let the presence and touch of his lover overwrite and erase the old unpleasant memory.

“This all right?” John murmurs in his ear. Sherlock responds by covering John’s smaller hand with his own, interlacing their fingers together.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, the pills already making him feel fuzzy and drowsy. “I’m sick of sleeping.”

“You’re getting better,” John reminds him. “Don’t worry, you’ll be out terrorizing the dirtbags of London in no time.”

Sherlock sighs in grumpy resignation. He’s already sliding towards unconsciousness when John speaks again, softer this time.

“I was so scared,” murmurs John, almost too quietly for Sherlock to hear, and Sherlock squeezes his small warm hand once as the safety and peace of finally being home pulls him down into a deep, blank sleep.

***

_**I was aware the documents were missing. I could have helped. -MH** _

Sherlock cocks his head, considering. His brother almost never texts unless talking is somehow uncomfortable, either physically or--

Oh.

_**I should have asked. It was a misjudgment on my part. -SH** _

_**I trust the constraints of unfortunate strategic realities are not interpreted as a lack of concern. -MH** _

_**Of course not. -SH** _

_**Your doctor is taking excellent care of you, I’m sure? -MH** _

_**The best. -SH** _

_**Good. -MH** _

 

***

Two nights later, Sherlock wakes to find John sitting up in bed, callused fingers stroking his arm. He turns his head--only a twinge of soreness, now, he’s healing fast--and looks up at John. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice low and rough from sleep.

“Why didn’t they kill you?” John asks him bluntly. His composure has finally cracked. His voice is thick and hoarse, and Sherlock knows he’s been crying.

“I’m not certain.” And he’s not, not completely. But he does suspect, and he knows how much it will upset John.

“But they knew you didn’t have the papers.”

“Yes.”

“They should have killed you two days earlier.” John laughs but it’s a hollow, rasping sound. “I mean, thank God they didn’t. But why?”

John is already upset, and Sherlock decides the truth won’t make it any worse. He rolls onto his side, places a hand on John’s warm thigh. “Because they were trying to get something out of Mycroft. I don’t know exactly what. Money, most likely, or something the Hungarians wanted more than money.”

“He could have gotten you out and he left you there for five days?” John exhales sharply. “Fuck him. _Fuck him_. I’m going to kill him. I don’t care if he’s the fucking British government, I’m--”

“John. Stop. Think about it for a moment.“ Sherlock tries to marshal his reason, his persuasiveness. “Mycroft cannot ever, ever give in to demands of that nature. If he did, even once, no one he has any connection to would ever be safe. Me, you, my parents-- we would live under constant threat from every two-bit London lowlife with delusions of grandeur.” He rubs soothing circles on John’s thigh, clockwise, the way he likes. “Think about it. You know it’s true.” 

After a minute John sighs in resigned acceptance. The tight line of his shoulders loosens just a fraction. “Yeah. I get it. I do. I’m still angry with the bastard but yeah, I get it.”

“It’s one of the reasons Mycroft lets you stay in my life--”

_“--Lets me?”_

“--shut up and listen. You keep me safe, John. I knew you’d find me. I never had a doubt. Not once.”

“I would tear London apart with my bare hands to find you,” John declares, low and fervent.

“I know.”

“Unlike _some people.”_

“John.”

“Yeah. I get it, I do. I still don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock reassures him.

John scrubs at his eyes with balled fists like a child, then drops his hands to his lap. “Sherlock,” he says, quietly. “Listen. I have to ask. Did something happen that you’re not telling me?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You flinch and freeze up when I touch you. I’m no genius, but I _am_ a bit more observant than you think.”

“I just…” now it’s Sherlock’s turn to sigh. “I’ll be fine, John.”

He can hear John mentally debating whether or not to push for more, tries to cut him off at the pass. He tugs gently on his arm. “It’s the middle of the night. We both need rest. Go back to sleep.”

John sighs in assent, lays back down, pecks Sherlock on the lips. “Okay. You too.”

Sherlock wants to reassure John but he doesn’t know what else to say, and his battered body is still clamouring for rest, so he falls quickly back into slumber, fingers still wrapped around John’s wrist.

***

Another two days pass. Sherlock is feeling much better, well enough to be chafing in irritation at his enforced inactivity.

John tries to distract him. “Your inbox is overflowing,” he points out. “There’s enough in there to keep your brain busy for a week.”

“Boring.”

“You could go through the fridge and bin a few old experiments. I think we’ve moved beyond 'gone off'. Some of them are evolving into sentient life forms. I went looking for orange juice and I swear I overheard something plotting a coup.”

“Honestly, John. The way you exaggerate.”

“If you want to play Cluedo, I need to get drunk first.”

“Hm. Possibly amusing, but it’s not yet noon, and considering your family history... “

“Fine. _Fine_. Entertain yourself, then, you’re a grown man. Well, sort of.”

Sherlock can’t think of anything else to do and cleaning the refrigerator seems far too much like housework, so he pokes around his inbox. It’s all stupid and boring, mostly domestics, and Sherlock briefly considers defying doctor’s orders and bodily dragging John out of the flat, down to NSY or Barts to find something new and interesting, but some small afraid part of him doesn’t want to leave the safety of home.

Sherlock hates that part of himself, hates it with a visceral, burning intensity.

***

They haven’t been physically intimate since the kidnapping, now ten days past; even their frequent casual touching has all but ceased.

Sherlock suspects he’s the one doing the avoiding. He feels a million miles away from John, distant and cold and alone, and he’s not exactly sure why.

He spends quite a few hours lying on the couch, trying to reach some kind of understanding of his own emotional state, with little success. He has matured and grown enough to at least realize the limitations of his own self-awareness, but he needs John to help him understand most everything beyond that and they’ve been so careful and remote with each other lately Sherlock doesn’t know how to even approach him.

It takes him the better part of a day to understand what he needs to make this bad, empty feeling go away.

What he wants, what he needs, is John. Not just a kiss or a touch; he needs John to surround him, hold him tight, pin him down; invade him and claim him and keep him safe.

Sherlock has no words, no language to express these kinds of inchoate yearnings. He has something else, though, a signal, a shorthand.

When he finally figures it out, he literally smacks himself in the forehead. Of course. _Obvious_.

***

John is in his chair, laboriously pecking out an email (customer service complaint to Superdrug; for complex reasons involving his age, lower-middle class background and below-average height, John loves writing aggrieved letters when he feels ill-treated by retail clerks) when Sherlock comes out of the bedroom, freshly showered and wrapped in his favorite blue silk dressing gown. He pads silently on bare feet to the rug in front of John’s chair and drops gracefully to the floor in front of him, fitting himself into the space between John’s legs. He rests his head on the warm fabric covering John’s thigh, silently asking for his undivided attention.

He hears John put the laptop aside. Warm fingers slide through his damp hair. 

“Hello there, gorgeous,” John murmurs, warm and fond. “I’ve missed you.”

Sherlock reaches into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulls out his collar. The metal hardware jingles as he drops it in John’s lap and waits.

John’s fingers in his hair grow still as he picks up the collar and inhales. Exhales.

“Sweetheart. After what you’ve just been through...I don’t know if this the kind of thing we should--”

Something spikes in Sherlock’s chest. It’s hard to breathe past it.

“John,” he says, fighting hard to keep his voice even, “surely you’re not so stupid that you can’t parse the profound psychological difference between what we do and actually being forcibly imprisoned.”

John drops the collar on the side table. “Okay, first? Calling me stupid is never going to help you get what you want. And second, I do understand the difference, but to pretend there’s no questionable grey area here, so soon after you were abducted and hurt for real?” John picks up Sherlock’s arm, pushes back the sleeve to reveal the still-healing abrasions on his wrists. “I just don’t think it’s a very good idea for us to be like that right now.”

The rejection washes over Sherlock, a wave of ugly black ice. Now he can’t breathe at all, he can’t inhale, he can’t find the oxygen needed to form words. He rises, carefully, to his feet. He feels like he wants to yell or rant or break something but he can’t, he can’t, everything inside him is frozen to the very core.

John is supposed to understand what he needs, always. And he doesn’t understand this.

He fights for control of his face, but he’s losing the battle, and John’s open, careworn features crease with concern. 

“Sherlock,” he says, soft and careful. “Love. Can we talk about this?”

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment before turning and walking--not flouncing, not running, just calmly walking-- back into the bedroom. He closes the door quietly but firmly. He turns the lock and arranges himself on the bed, flat on his back with fingers steepled under his chin, and tries to calm his raging emotions.

John’s objections to putting the collar on Sherlock were, subjectively, perfectly reasonable and sound. But Sherlock is upset, horribly so. He feels cold and ill and terrified, and worst of all, he doesn’t understand _why_.

Why is he so upset? The kidnapping was relatively...well, not minor, it was unpleasant to be sure, but Sherlock has endured far worse physically--

 _(Remember me?_ a nasty little voice whispers from behind a steel door in his mind. _Serbia? I’m still here. Lock me away, pretend I never happened, pretend I don’t matter, doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere)_

\--and emerged on the other side just fine. Logically, there is no reason this relatively undamaging incident should be this emotionally destabilizing.

But, clearly, this is different. Why is this different?

John is knocking on the door. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but he feels the hurt welling up again and chooses to remain silent instead. He closes his eyes and deliberately pushes away thoughts of John, of his furrowed brow, of his concerned eyes and warm gentle hands. John had told him no. John had rejected him. If John doesn’t want him, he can bloody well stay away.

On the other side of the door, John is talking now, calm and concerned. After some indeterminate amount of time his voice grows more strident, demanding. A short time after that, the knocking finally stops.

“Have it your way, then,” John says, sounding resigned but not defeated. “Sulk if you want. Bear in mind, though, it’s my bedroom too and I have every intention of sleeping in my own bed tonight. You better open this door by nightfall or I’m breaking it down. Don’t think I won’t.”

***

Nightfall arrives on its usual schedule.

John doesn’t break the door down.

He picks the lock instead.

He comes into the bedroom, turns on the small bedside lamp, and drops the lockpick kit from Sherlock’s coat pocket onto the table.

“You said I was hopeless with these. Turns out motivation is a great teacher.”

Sherlock turns on his side, away from John, and pointedly says nothing. John sighs and sits on the edge of the bed.

“We’ve had a massive misunderstanding, haven’t we?” he says gently. “I’ve hurt you terribly and I don’t even know how.”

Sherlock is almost dizzy, nauseated by the maelstrom of confused emotions spinning in his head, but is unable to give voice to any of them so says nothing at all.

“I need you to talk to me, love,” John says. “You’ve been remote ever since you came home, and I was okay with giving you some space, and then out of nowhere you pull out your collar and want to jump into that without a word of explanation and I don’t understand what’s going on. I love you, Sherlock, but I’m not psychic and I need you to communicate with me.”

Sherlock groans into the pillow in frustration. 

“I thought,” he says, his voice creaky from hours of silence, “that we do what we do so I don’t _have_ to communicate.”

John sits in surprised silence for a moment before he huffs out a noise that’s close to but not quite a laugh. “I didn’t know that’s what we were doing. I’m not an expert, but I’m fairly certain BDSM is not meant to be employed as a substitute for actually talking about things.”

“That’s not precisely what I meant,” sighs Sherlock. “It’s--when we do that, it’s simpler. I’m simpler. I feel things differently.” He cranes his head back to scowl at John. “You know this. Don’t be an idiot.”

John’s face is a study in careful concern. “Do you...Okay, then. You want me to put your collar on you because you have strong feelings you need help to process.”

“Yes. No.” Sherlock turns his head away from John, buries his face back into the pillow. “I don’t know!” he shouts, his voice muffled by cotton and feathers. “I’m upset and I shouldn’t be and _I don’t know!”_

John sighs and brings his hand up to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. He can feel John considering the different paths to take, as his fingers trace patterns in the silk covering Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“All right,” he says at last. “Sit up, then, and face me.” The concern in his voice is now underlaid with a shade of his commanding tone. Sherlock hesitates for a moment, then obeys. John’s eyes are dark blue, crinkled with concern.

Sherlock looks at those eyes and remembers then how much John loves him, and it becomes just a tiny bit easier to breathe.

John reaches into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out the collar. The silver buckles and D-ring sparkle the in the yellow lamplight. Sherlock holds himself perfectly still as John leans forward and fastens the collar around his neck. Sherlock closes his eyes and exhales in relief.

After sliding a finger underneath to check that the black leather is snug but not too tight, John toes off his shoes and pulls his jumper over his head, tossing it to the floor.

“Safeword?”

Sherlock almost rolls his eyes--it’s always the same damn word--but with his collar on, such a show of disrespect will absolutely not be tolerated. The realization of that is almost instantly calming, freeing. “Red,” he answers, his voice even.

“Good boy,” John murmurs approvingly. “Move over a bit.” Sherlock obeys, and John arranges himself on the bed, his back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. He pats his thigh.

“Lay your head right here, pet,” he says kindly. Sherlock does as he is told, and a small sigh escapes him when John’s fingers begin to card softly through his hair, short nails scratching gently against his sensitive scalp.

“Is this a bit better?” John asks. “A little quieter in there?”

Sherlock nods. John’s fingers tighten just slightly in warning, reminding him to answer a direct question.

“Yes, John.”

“I’m glad,” John says. They stay like that for several peaceful minutes.

“Sherlock,” John finally says, quietly but firmly, “you need to tell me what happened. I can’t help you unless you tell me what happened.”

A lot of things happened, he almost says, but that’s evading the question and he knows it.

He decides to trust John enough to be honest.

“He touched me,” Sherlock says simply. “Liverpool. He put his hands on me.”

John’s fingers don’t stop, but Sherlock can feel his breathing go shallow, rapid with anger, with rage. “Did he rape you?” he asks, over enunciating each syllable, clearly fighting to keep his voice calm and level. 

“No,” Sherlock says quickly. “I wasn’t fully aware of my surroundings, but even if I didn’t remember there would have been… indications. Evidence. I’m sure he didn’t.” He takes a deep breath, forces himself to continue. “But… he would have, I think, if you hadn’t found me when you did. They were also planning to kill me, which should be the rather more upsetting fact, shouldn’t it? But.” He pauses for needed air. “He touched me. I was too drugged to resist. It was… very unpleasant.”

John is still for a moment then breathes out, dips his head low, kisses Sherlock above his ear. “Thank you for telling me, pet. I know that was hard.”

“But you _are_ angry,” Sherlock says, aware he’s breaking the rules by speaking out of turn, but knowing they’re in a bit of an in-between space where rules can be bent.

“I am,” John says, stroking his hair, “but not with you, my love. Never with you. Do you believe that?”

Sherlock considers the question. “I want to,” he answers truthfully.

“Listen to me,” John says, his voice low and urgent. “You did nothing wrong. Nothing.”

“Then why am I so upset?” Sherlock asks. “He didn’t rape me. He just put his hands on my body. It’s just meat, transport, so why do I care?” his voice cracks with uncertainty and anxiety. “Help me understand, John. Please. I’ve been through so much worse, _why do I care?_ ”

His fingers comb through Sherlock’s hair as John breathes steadily, evenly, in through his nose and out through his mouth, collecting his thoughts. Calming himself so he can be calm for Sherlock.

“Maybe... because it’s not just about the transport.” John is speaking slowly, as though he is piecing his thoughts together as he says them aloud. “You have a lot of skeletons, Sherlock, a lot of things that happened to you that we don’t talk about. And that’s okay. Well. It’s not okay, but I accept it. It’s the past. But now...you’re much more connected to your body, now. Your body is one of the ways we communicate with each other, relate to each other, and someone else touching you without your consent feels like something coming between us.” John exhales. “That’s why you were so distant before, and why you were so upset when I didn’t want to put your collar on. You feel like that horrible piece of human garbage did something that make you not belong to me anymore.” John sucks in a short breath. “Am I close, love?”

Sherlock’s stomach cramps into a tight ball of pain at the absolute, razor-edged truth of John’s words. He curls in on himself, unconsciously shielding himself against the hurt. John’s warm, strong arms wrap around him, hold him tight. 

“And you felt like...Oh God. You felt like I didn’t want you. Oh, sweetheart. I handled that so badly, didn’t I? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn’t understand.” He rocks Sherlock back and forth, just the tiniest bit, as he strokes him and kisses his hair. John’s scent surrounds him, makes him feel warm and protected, makes the hurt ease just a little.

Sherlock still feels like he wants to cry, but he can’t, he’s not far down enough to let it out, he needs--

“I need,” Sherlock says, and hesitates.

“Anything,” says John. “Anything you need.”

“I need to feel safe again,” Sherlock says. “I need to feel like I’m yours.”

“You are mine, pet,” John says. “Mine. And I’ll always, always want you.” He tugs gently on Sherlock’s hair, turning his head so John can kiss him deeply, slow and careful but unmistakable in intent.

Sherlock responds to the kiss, opening to him hungrily, seeking John’s tongue with his own, relishing the taste of him, the warm welcome of his mouth.

John pulls back a fraction and exhales.

“If I were a better man,” he says quietly, “now is when I’d help you understand how unhealthy it is to completely externalize your self-worth like this.”

“But you’re not a better man,” Sherlock murmurs.

John shakes his head. “No, goddammit, I’m not,” he whispers, and descends on his mouth again, this time hot and searching, full of intent. 

After several minutes of wet, desperate kissing John breaks away for air, breathing hard, his pupils dilated and huge in the low light. “I want to do something, pet,” he whispers, stroking Sherlock’s hair. “It’s something I’ve thought about for a long time.” He hesitates for several moments, searching for the right words. 

“Tell me,” Sherlock says quietly. “Please.”

“I want to mark you,” John says. “Permanently.” He kisses Sherlock again, demanding and possessive. “I really want to, I have for a while, and maybe it will help you feel…” he stops, kisses Sherlock again. “Say I can, love. Say yes. Please.”

Sherlock moans against John’s lips. The idea of it, of John marking him, claiming ownership of his body--it lights his skin on fire, sends ripples of terrified, delighted arousal singing along his nerves. “Yes,” he breathes, feeling as if all the air is gone from his lungs. “God, John. Yes. Anything you want.”

John kisses his face, his forehead. “This is insane,” he says, his voice shaking a bit. “I’m insane.”

“You are,” Sherlock murmurs, “and I don’t care. Whatever you want, I want.”

“All right.” John brings his lips back down to Sherlock’s mouth, the kiss gentle and sweet this time. “Thank you.” He gently moves Sherlock’s head off his thigh, sliding himself up and off the bed. 

“I need to get a few things. I want you on your knees by the bed when I get back. Do you understand?”

John’s voice is low and a bit hoarse, but the underlying tone of command is unyielding. Sherlock almost sighs in relief. 

“Yes, John.”

“Good boy. I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock slips off the bed, wondering briefly if John wants him naked. He hadn’t said, so Sherlock does exactly as he was told, kneeling on the rug next to the side of the bed, heels tucked under his rear end, and waits. 

It’s only a minute or two until John returns, with a stack of folded towels and the old-fashioned leather doctor’s bag Sherlock had bought him for his birthday. He sets both on the floor at the foot of the mattress.

John moves purposefully, moving pillows, arranging towels, rummaging in the wardrobe. Sherlock stops himself from reflexively deducing John’s activities, instead reaching inside himself and finding the discipline to let go. He closes his eyes and allows his mind to still, to drift downward to a different, simpler place.

John finishes his preparations and sinks quietly to the floor behind him, kneeling down and bringing his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders, sliding the blue silk down his arms. He kisses the back of his neck, his shoulder as he pushes the dressing gown off Sherlock’s bare skin.

“I’m going to take it all away,” John murmurs against his neck, the vibrations of his low rasp making Sherlock shiver, making his cock stir and thicken. “I’m going to wipe away every trace of that bastard. Every inch of your skin, every last place on your body.” He gently pushes Sherlock’s head to the right and brings his lips to the juncture of his shoulder, biting and sucking a mark just below the edge of the black leather. Sherlock hears himself make a choked, desperate noise.

“You’re so beautiful,” John whispers. He slides his hands across Sherlock’s chest, thumbs brushing across his nipples then trailing down the flat planes of his stomach. “So perfect.” A warm hand slips under his balls, cupping and rolling them, making Sherlock moan low in his throat and arch back into John as his cock grows fully hard. John wraps his warm palm around the shaft, strokes him gently, brushes his thumb over the wet slit just the way Sherlock likes.

“Mine,” he says softly. “No one else’s. Are you mine, pet?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock breathes, pushing his hips into his John’ fist, shivering at the delicious friction against his cock.

“Are you sure you want this?” John asks, low and serious. “Not playing a game here. I need to know you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock breathes. “I’m absolutely sure.”

“All right, then.” John kisses his shoulder and releases him, making Sherlock whine low in his throat at the loss of contact. He climbs to his feet, steps to Sherlock’s side and holds a hand out. “Up on the bed, then. On your belly.”

John guides Sherlock onto the bed, laying him face down on the towels, his head turned to his left side. He gives him a nudge to raise his hips so he can slide a pillow under them, buckles the padded cuffs around his wrists, a bit tighter than usual to reduce friction against his still-healing abrasions. “Up over your head,” he murmurs, clipping the cuffs together, sliding rope through the D-rings and tying them to the center post of the headboard, leaving just enough give to keep his arms from aching. 

“That all right, love?” he asks.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock breathes. The tension of the rope and the tightness of the cuffs around his wrists sends shocks of white-hot arousal down his spine. God, how he loves to be tied up by John, the absolute safety and trust and freedom of it, and how relieved he is that his enjoyment of it hasn’t been dimmed a fraction by his recent experience. Sherlock grinds his hips lewdly into the mattress and groans in mindless pleasure at the friction against his aching cock.

John pinches the back of his thigh, not hard but in warning. “Stop that now, you greedy thing,” he says, his tone low and serious. “I’m being a bit lenient tonight, but if you need a firmer hand I won’t hesitate.”

Sherlock whines a bit but stills the movement of his hips, resisting the impulse to thrust while revelling in the denial, in his obedience to John over the demands of his weak and willful body.

“Good boy,” John murmurs approvingly, stroking his naked flank with a warm calloused fingers. “Soon you’ll get all you can take and more, I promise. But it’s my job to decide what you get. Not yours. Do you know why?”

“Because…” oh God, it’s so hard to think with the need growing, with the desire to push, to hump against the mattress almost overpowering in its intensity. “Because I belong to you.”

“That’s right,” John says, voice rough and low. “You belong to me. Every part of your body. Every inch of you. Nothing will ever change that.” John kisses the very top of his spinal column, the bony prominence of the C2 vertebra, and moves down, dropping a small kiss to each knob of his spine. His lips press the swell of his left buttock, and Sherlock cries out in surprise as John nips him there, sucks hard at the tender flesh, pull the blood to the surface then soothes the love bite with catlike swipes of his tongue. He does the same to the other side, causing Sherlock to make little, bitten-off cries as he squirms and pulls at his restraints.

“I love your arse,” John murmurs reverently. “It’s absolutely spectacular. Miraculous. I don’t tell you that often enough.” He kisses the tender flesh of Sherlock’s right cheek. “Every time I look at it I want to kiss it. I want to taste it.” Sherlock gasps as fingers gently spread him open and John’s warm, wet tongue swipes a wide, flat path from his perineum to the base of his spine. He can’t help but arch and cry out as John’s tongue circles that small tight knot of flesh and then presses, coaxing him open with gentle licks and caresses. John has never done this to him before and the sensation is incomparable, the filthy intimacy of it overloading Sherlock’s already addled mind with base, primal need. He spreads his legs wider and arches back in wordless entreaty.

John lifts his head, kisses the crease where buttock meets thigh. “Is it good, pet?”

“Yes,” Sherlock moans rapturously. “Oh God, yes, don’t stop oh please don’t stop--”

“Then let me hear you,” John says. “Let me hear what I do to you.” He spreads Sherlock wide again, holding his cheeks apart with his hands as he sucks and licks greedily at his hole, and Sherlock keens, almost sobbing with pleasure as John’s tongue presses against his sensitive rim, coaxing, seeking entrance. He’s openly rutting against the bed now, giving in to his body’s overwhelming need for contact against hard flesh, and he doesn’t want to come yet but it feels indescribably good, spread shamelessly open like this, pushing back against John’s face pressed into his most private place, the hot wet slide of John’s skilled tongue making him writhe and cry out in mindless ecstasy.

“John,” he gasps in a broken wail, “I can’t-- I’m going to--”

John stills and pulls away, leaving Sherlock on the very precipice of orgasm. “Not yet,” John murmurs, placing both hands on the crests of Sherlock’s hips, stilling him. Sherlock shudders and whimpers with the heavy ache of denied release. “I know, love,” John says, placing a small kiss at the base of his spine, his lips and chin wet and cool with saliva. “Shh. Soon, I promise.”

Sherlock breathes in and out, his body calming as the coiled tightness lessens a bit. John moves to his side, kisses the back of his neck, checks his wrists. “Are your arms okay still?”

“Yes, John,” he says quietly, floating in a dark, calm space now that the sharp-edged, desperate need has passed.

“So good for me,” he says in warm approval, Sherlock hears him turn away, rummaging in the bedside table drawer and reaching under the bed, then he hears the unmistakable click of a cap opening. John repositions himself on his knees between Sherlock’s legs, and something hard and cool nudges at his wet, relaxed opening,

“Just breathe out slowly,” John says, and pushes the slicked rubber plug slowly but insistently into his body. It’s not as large as John’s cock but it’s harder, more unyielding, and he cries out softly as John guides the widest part of the toy into his body.

“I know you can do it, love,” John murmurs, kissing the edge of his iliac crest as he works the plug into him. “Show me how much you want it. Show me well you can take it.”

Sherlock gasps and whimpers as the flared base nudges past past his tight, burning rim and seats fully inside him. His breathing goes ragged at the feeling of hot, insistent fullness, at the confusing not-quite-pain, not-yet-pleasure signals his body is sending.

“Oh, that’s nice,” John murmurs, his voice gone rough and quiet. “I love seeing you plugged while you’re helpless like this. I love thinking about how you’re stretched open inside, how full you are.” he nudges the plug, angles it just a touch, and Sherlock can’t stop the low animal noise he makes as the toy brushes his prostate; shudders wrack his body as his still-hard cock twitches and leaks beneath him. 

John’s hands are on his shoulders now, his clothed body pressing against his naked back; insistent hips push into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, and he can easily feel the hard length of John’s cock even through the fabric of his trousers. “That’s what you do to me,” John breathes into his ear as he thrusts, each movement shifting the plug against Sherlock’s prostate and sending another shower of sparking heat through his body. “Just having you like this, just giving you pleasure makes me this hard. Can you feel this, love?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whimpers, reveling in the weight of John’s body on him holding him down, immobile and helpless as the hard rubber fucks him open with each slow roll of John’s hips.

“This is how much I want you,” John murmurs. “This is how much I will always, always want you.” His teeth find the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder and bite, hard enough to bruise, making Sherlock howl as pain and pleasure light his nerve endings on fire. John’s tongue gently soothes the mark, lips kissing the sting away.

John moves away from him, making Sherlock whine softly at the loss.

“I know, pet,” John says, kind but firm. “I know, but it’s time to roll over now.”

The rope fastening his wrists to the headboard has enough give to allow Sherlock to turn onto his back with John’s assistance. The movement makes the toy shift inside him and he whimpers at the sensation, feeling his cock dribble out precome as the plug presses against his prostate.

John eyes his stiff, wet prick and smirks just the tiniest bit, sliding a hand in between his thighs to stroke and tug at his bollocks. Sherlock moans and shamelessly spreads his legs wider in supplication.

“So you’re doing all right, then, I think,” John says.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock breathes, closing his eyes against the fresh onslaught of pleasure racing through his nerves.

“Good boy,” John murmurs and releases him, steps back. “Open your eyes,” he tells Sherlock. “Watch me.” 

Sherlock obeys, watching as John begins unbuttoning his shirt in a measured, unhurried pace. He takes off his clothing slowly but without pretense, folding each article of clothing carefully and placing the stack neatly on the desk. John watches Sherlock watch him, not breaking eye contact as he removes his belt, unbuttons his khaki trousers and slides them off his hips. 

Desperate for the return of John’s skin against his, Sherlock’s eyes gratefully drink in every familiar dip and curve of his lover’s body, his wide shoulders, the silver crater of his scar, the slight softness cushioning his belly, his powerful thighs dusted with sparse blonde hair. Sherlock unconsciously moistens dry lips with his tongue as John eases the waistband of his navy blue y-fronts over the bulge of his erection. When John’s stiff, dusky pink cock springs free from his pants Sherlock feels a wave of fresh desire wash over him, but it’s softer now, sweeter, something gentled by love and devotion.

“You’re beautiful,” Sherlock breathes, low and quiet, and even though he’s broken the rules of their game John just smiles at him as he sits back down on the edge of the bed.

“And you’re the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” John purrs, sliding his thumb across the edge of Sherlock’s lower lip. Sherlock obediently opens his mouth, suckling and tonguing at the offered digit, making John shiver with pleasure.

“I love you all the time,” he whispers hoarsely, “But when you’re like this...it’s almost more than I can take, seeing you like this. You don’t know what you do to me.”

He gently slides his thumb out of Sherlock’s mouth with a messy wet pop, leans over to kiss his sore, swollen lips.

“I have to wash my hands,” he says softly. “Will you be all right alone for just a minute?”

Sherlock feels safe, secure in his restraints. “Yes, John.”

“Don’t fret, love. I’ll be right back,” John ducks into the ensuite; Sherlock hears the water run as he closes his eyes and wonders what John has in store for him next.

***

“This is your last chance to safeword,” John says quietly. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock murmurs, pliant and willing under his hands.

John sits astride Sherlock’s hips, their cocks almost but not quite touching. The implements are lined up on a small towel next to them, along with an open plastic zipper bag.

“This is going to hurt, pet,” says John. “Quite a lot.”

Sherlock feels no fear or anxiety. The press of his collar, the restraint of his arms, the fullness and pressure of the plug all combine into a sensory overload that takes him to a different space, a floaty, warm sense of complete and perfect submission. He trusts John utterly.

“Yes,” he says simply.

John looks at him for a long moment, then picks up the fine-tipped surgical marker and uncaps it with his teeth. He tilts his head in contemplation, lip flicking against his bottom lip, then presses the tip just to the left of Sherlock’s sternum. It takes less than a minute.

“Sherlock, look,” John tells him.

He obeys, looks down at the pale expanse of his chest.

Six swiping movements; four letters, written in his messy all-capital half-cursive scrawl, located above the small white crater of his scar, the memento Mary left behind.

His first name, written over Sherlock’s heart.

John caps the pen, drops it in the bag, and opens the wrapper covering the Betadine swab and sets it aside. He picks up the plastic packet containing a pair of sterile gloves. John opens the plastic with his teeth and puts them on. Sherlock finds something in the sight of him wearing blue nitrile gloves and nothing else perversely arousing, and files that stray thought away for later contemplation.

The Betadine is cold against his skin, making Sherlock hiss through his teeth. John generously covers the marker lines with antiseptic, then tosses the used swab into the plastic bag. Taking a deep breath, he picks up the disposable scalpel.

“You must stay absolutely still,” John says, the scalpel in his hand poised above Sherlock’s heart. “Make all the noise you want, pet. I want to make you scream. I want to make you cry. But you must not move a muscle.”

Sherlock nods, and John makes the first incision.

The cut is surprisingly painless at first, then a line of searing white-hot pain explodes across his skin, making Sherlock cry out in shock and surprise.

“That’s it, love,” John says, not looking up from his work. “Let it out. Let me hear you.”

John moves methodically, wiping away the welling blood with squares of gauze as his steady hand carves lines into Sherlock’s pale flesh. Sherlock hears himself keening, crying out as he has never allowed himself to do under the hands of any captor. The pain builds and builds, burning phosphorous searing his nerves.

“It’s all right,” John murmurs soothingly, “I’ve got you.” He doesn’t stop, working slowly and carefully, incising a deep, careful curve as Sherlock focuses his considerable will to doing as he was told, endeavouring to keep himself still as tears run freely from his eyes and his breathing hitches in thick gasps.

The pain unspools time into a thin, endless thread; it feels like the next minutes last an eternity as John carves precise, delicate lines into his living canvas of skin while Sherlock whimpers and weeps quietly beneath him.

A lifetime later John caps the scalpel and tosses it into the plastic bag, pulling off the soiled gloves as blood runs freely down Sherlock’s chest. “It’s all done now, love, shh,” he murmurs as he drops the bag into the leather satchel and shoves it carelessly off the bed. He reaches up to Sherlock’s face, wipes away his tears with the pads of his thumbs. “It’s over now, shh, don’t cry.” He murmurs gentle words of comfort as he covers Sherlock’s eyelids, his cheeks, his lips in small soft kisses. His lips trace the edge of his jaw, down the long column of his throat. He dips his head and places a reverent kiss to his sternum, just to the right of the lines cut into his flesh, then moves lower, tracing his tongue down to Sherlock’s navel and back up again, then pulling back to look again at his handiwork, at the crimson streams flowing across milk-white skin.

Sherlock hears John’s breathing change, going shallow and rapid; the sight of blood streaming down Sherlock’s body seems to touch some dark, complicated place in him. “I want to taste you,” John murmurs, voice gone ragged with arousal, and touches his tongue to a trail of crimson. He licks the blood eagerly from Sherlock’s skin, leaves trails of it on his collarbone and neck as he mouths back up his body, shares the bright metal taste of it when he takes Sherlock’s mouth in a messy, gore-tinged kiss.

“I want to devour you,” John growls against his lips. “I want to consume every piece of you. I want drink you, swallow you, make you a part of me, in my cells and my bones.”

“Jesus, John,” Sherlock whispers, and opens his mouth to him again, the blood sticky and hot on John’s mouth. The taste of blood, the thick iron smell of it--it’s done something to John, taken him to a deep, primal place Sherlock has never seen before. He’s never loved the man more than he does in this moment, he thinks, as John breaks the kiss and pushes himself upright, grinding his rock-hard cock against Sherlock’s, eyes wild and dark, blood on his lips and chin. He’s a madman, a bloodthirsty warrior, a vengeful god--

”Yes, oh please,” Sherlock sobs, not even realizing he’s still crying. “Yes. Anything. I’m yours. Anything.”

John kisses him again, a bruising crash of lips and teeth as one hand fumbles blindly for the lube. “I’m going to fuck you into oblivion,” he rasps harshly into Sherlock’s ear. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll feel me inside you for a week. I’m going to tear you apart and then I’m going to make you come so hard you’ll go blind.” Sherlock arches up against him in wordless entreaty, and John reaches underneath him and tugs roughly on the plug. Sherlock moans in a spasm of confused pain and pleasure as the smooth warmed rubber is unceremoniously pulled free from his body, leaving him gaping and empty and desperate to be filled.

John tosses the plug aside and kneels between Sherlock’s legs, lifting the long pale limbs over his shoulders before slicking his own cock with a messy handful of lube and entering him with a single brutal thrust. 

“Oh. Oh, _fuck_ ,” John moans. “Fuck. Sherlock. You feel so good.” 

He feels overfilled as John’s insistent cock shoves into him, too quickly and it hurts, it does, but the discomfort fades as pain and pleasure blur into one single overwhelming sensation. John fucks him relentlessly, low wordless groans pouring from his mouth as he takes his desperate pleasure in Sherlock’s body. 

“Yes, yes, fuck, yes.” John growls low in his throat and bends him almost double, capturing his mouth with fierce, punishing kisses. Sherlock’s cock is trapped between their bodies and Sherlock cries out with pleasure, the friction delicious against his aching flesh as John moves inside him.

“Tell me,” John growls against his mouth. “Tell me how good it feels when I fuck you hard.”

“So good, so very good,” Sherlock moans, not even knowing what he’s saying. “Oh God, John, Oh God, oh please--”

“Mine,” John pants between bitten off gasps. “You’re mine, forever. Stay with me. Marry me.” He brushes sweat-damp hair out of Sherlock’s eyes, fingers incongruously tender in contrast to the punishing snap of his hips. “I mean it,” he says, his rough voice softening, breaking. “Marry me. Please.”

“God, yes. _Yes_ ,” Sherlock breathes, and John is kissing him again, and the kisses taste of blood and tears and John moans low into his mouth as his hips stutter and he’s coming suddenly and hard, his body drawing up bowstring tight as he pulses and spills hot and deep in Sherlock’s body. John sags against him for a moment, his breath coming in deep gulps, and then he’s pulling out already, moving himself down Sherlock’s body, lips brushing his belly, tongue tasting the blood and sweat that covers him.

“Come in my mouth,” John tells him, and swallows him down without preamble. The sudden wet heat surrounding his cock is unbelievable; Sherlock grunts and moans in base, mindless need as his hips lift involuntarily off the bed, seeking more of the unbelievable pleasure, the hot slick suction taking his mind and body to pieces. John pushes his hips back down onto the bed, holding him still as he works his cock ardently, taking him deep into his throat, using his tongue along the underside of the shaft, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks him with greedy abandon.

It’s too much, it’s too good, and within moments Sherlock feels his orgasm building huge and hot low in his belly, electricity sparking at the base of his spine. John is relentless in his attention, laving him with his tongue and giving just the slightest scrape of teeth, and when he slips a hand behind his balls and presses two fingers into his wet and tender hole Sherlock tips over the edge and comes with a pained animal cry, blinding pleasure burning him to ash as he spurts over and over into John’s eager mouth, his arsehole spasming and contracting around John’s insistent fingers as John moans and swallows him down eagerly.

He comes for what seems like forever, making desperate keening noises as wave after wave of paralyzing bliss wash over his body. As the tide finally recedes John suckles him gently through the shivering aftershocks, and when Sherlock is completely spent he releases his cock and slides his fingers gently out of him, with just a hint of the stinging rawness sure to follow. He comes back up to kiss Sherlock gently but so deeply, mouths open and wet, tongues meeting and tangling, Sherlock tasting the metallic tang of his own body on his lips. John kisses his cheek, his forehead, then sits up to release Sherlock’s wrists from the leather cuffs and unbuckle the collar.

After the hardware has been put aside John collapses against his side with a deep exhale and they are both quiet for a moment, returning slowly to themselves. Sherlock vaguely feels the hot, burning throb of his wounds pulse with each beat of his still-pounding heart.

Sherlock finally finds the energy to speak. “You know, conventional wisdom holds that I’m the madman in this relationship,” he murmurs, fond and amused. 

John chuckles quietly. “I’ve always been the mad one. I just didn’t know it until I met you.” He grows quieter, more serious. “Are you all right?”

“Never better,” Sherlock answers truthfully, though his arse is tender and sore and the cuts on his chest are starting to burn in earnest. He welcomes the sensation, though; the thought of John’s name carved on him is somehow both devastatingly erotic and profoundly comforting. He thinks of forever, of the fact that when he is sixty, seventy, eighty years old John’s name will still be etched permanently across his heart. 

Thoughts of forever lead him down a related path. “Did you mean what you said?” he asks.

“Every word,” John says simply. “Did you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, feeling achingly raw, stripped of all pretense.

“That would mean, then, that we’re getting married.” John suddenly sounds a bit formal and shy, almost nervous, and Sherlock is overcome with a burst of bone-deep adoration for this incredible, unpredictable, quietly ferocious man.

“It does indeed.” Sherlock reaches out to cup the back of John’s head and bring him close; the kiss is brilliant, tender and loving, but the motion causes Sherlock to gasp and wince at the pull on his fresh incisions. John breaks away and looks at him in concern, then his eyes skate downwards and widen in surprise.

“Jesus, Sherlock. We look like a sodding crime scene,” he says, a bit alarmed. Sherlock looks down and finds it true. They are both covered in copious amounts of drying blood, and the towels did little to keep crimson from staining Sherlock’s expensive Egyptian cotton bedding. “These sheets are ruined,” John says apologetically, making Sherlock smile.

Leave it to John Watson to cut him open like a lunatic and then worry about the linens after. “I could care less,” Sherlock says and laughs a little even though it hurts like hell. 

John looks at him and a small, adorable giggle escapes his throat. “We’re both utterly deranged, aren’t we?” he asks, and Sherlock nods, still laughing.

“Well, we’re deranged together. That’s the important thing, I guess,” John says as he sits up and holds a hand out to Sherlock. “Come on. We need to get cleaned up, and get that mess properly bandaged. And these sheets binned. No one would believe we didn’t dismember a body in here.”

“Actually,” Sherlock begins, “dismemberment of a body postmortem will produce very different blood and fluid drip patterns owing to several key factors, including--”

John takes his hand, helps him carefully to his feet. “It was a joke, darling. Do be a love and shut up.”

***

“Jesus, Sherlock. Stop poking at it. It’s going to get infected if you keep doing that.”

Sherlock huffs and smooths the bandage back over his chest. He would rather like for it to get infected, for the letters of John’s name to scar deep and purple and livid, puffy with healing tissue, but if he says so John will just lecture him on the dangers of MRSA or some such so he keeps the thought to himself.

They are dressing for the trip to Mummy and Dad’s. Mycroft is also going to be there, of course. Sherlock had been careful to make John think he was the one who insisted on it over Sherlock’s protests, in order to nudge John down the path of forgiveness.

“Promise me you’re not going to punch Mycroft when you see him,” he says.

“I won’t. He’s a right bastard, and I’m still pissed off, but he’s still your brother, and you’re lucky to have each other.” John’s eyes go a bit sad. 

(Sherlock makes a mental note to discreetly look into the whereabouts of John’s estranged sister. His brother could pay for a program, perhaps. It would leverage his residual feelings of guilt over the kidnapping into something useful.)

Sherlock hates when John looks sad.

“You look very handsome,” he says, changing the subject.

The compliment elicits a pleased grin from his fiancé. “Bit posher than my usual, but I think I can adjust,” John says.

His brother had surmised the impetus behind the invitation immediately, of course, and had sent them a multitude of congratulatory gifts (again, guilt) most of which John found extravagant and Sherlock found condescending. One of them, however, is surprisingly acceptable to both of them. John is wearing it today--a soft jumper of expensive cashmere, the colour a luxurious slate blue. Sherlock has to grudgingly admit that Mycroft--well Anthea, most likely--has impeccable taste, for the shade brings out the colour of John’s dark, complex eyes perfectly.

Sherlock shakes himself out of his brief reverie--he could think about John’s eyes for days, can even admit that to himself now without embarrassment, but that doesn’t mean it’s a wise use of mental capacity or time--and slides his arms into the sleeves of a crisp pale-grey buttondown. “I was thinking,” he says casually, as if he hadn’t a care in the world what John thought of the idea, “We ought to do it out at the house. There’s a registrar’s office not far away, and we could have some people over for a small...thing...after.”

John’s eyebrows tick up in surprise. “I thought for sure you’d want to take a cab to the nearest clerk’s office and get it done with a minimum of fuss.”

“Well,” Sherlock shrugs with a show of supreme unconcern, “it would make my mother happy. This is the only wedding she’s likely to get, unless someday there’s legal recognition of the special relationship between a minor official and the British government he loves.”

John snorts a bit in amusement before his eyes flick up to Sherlock’s with a perceptive, assessing look. For an anxious moment Sherlock thinks John will tease him about sentiment, about wanting to share their wedding day with others; but instead he gives Sherlock the smallest of fond smiles and sits on the edge of the bed to tie his shoes. “It would mean a lot to her, wouldn’t it?” he asks artlessly.

Sherlock sighs. “Just the kind of thing that she loves to coo over. She’ll be planning the flower arrangements for months.” 

“An excuse to bring out the good china,” John agrees good-naturedly. “She’ll be thrilled.”

“Not that it matters a bit to me,” Sherlock asserts. He goes quiet, buttons his cuffs carefully. “After all,” he says a moment later, avoiding eye contact, “now that you’ve had at me with a number 15 scalpel, merely exchanging rings seems a bit anticlimactic at best.”

“The rings are for the rest of the world to know,” says John, standing and coming up behind Sherlock, fingers smoothing the back of his shirt. “The other is just for you.”

“For me?” Sherlock tries to be offended, but he can’t stop the smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “You’re the drama queen, this time,” he teases.

John chuckles, slides his warm hands over Sherlock’s chest, presses oh-so-gently on the taped square of gauze under his shirt.

“Quite right,” he says, and kisses the sharp angle of a shoulder blade. “And I’m your drama queen,” John says with wry tenderness, “from now until the end of time.”

Sherlock shifts back just slightly, leans into the solid reassurance that is John, allows himself to be enveloped in the safety and permanence and home of this moment, this man, this love.

He feels himself smile, something small and genuine and for John alone. “You are,” he murmurs. “You are indeed.”


End file.
